


Success Probability

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Series: Singularity [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Pacifist Good Ending, Post-Canon, Shameless Trope Fill, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 12:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: "Hank," Connor starts. Not Lieutenant, just Hank. Hank gives him a baffled stare. "This is the only method with a high probability of success, so please go along with it."(OR, Hank and Connor go undercover at the Eden Club.)





	Success Probability

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вероятность успеха](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923068) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [成功机率](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15428532) by [osdom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osdom/pseuds/osdom)
  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Xác Suất Của Vinh Quang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15560673) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)



> I filled my own prompt, just like I said I would. Something's probably wrong with me, but at this point I don't care. This pairing has taken over my life. Y'all asked for it, so it's out of my fucking hands now. Just take it, goddammit.
> 
> Post-Pacifist Good Ending. Original prompt [here.](http://driverpicksthemooseic.tumblr.com/post/174516859628/i-have-a-mighty-need-for-the-quick-we-need-to)

"Listen," says Fowler, "I'm not sure where the Department stands on employment rights for plastic people now you've had your little movement, but I'll be damned if I'm going to lose a good team." He throws a file on the table. "If anyone asks, this didn't happen. That said, we have suspicious activity at the Eden Club. You had... success, by a measure of the word, there previously, so I'm sending you two in again. Keep a low profile. Don't fuck it up."

"What sort of suspicious activity?" Connor asks.

"It's all written right there. Read it yourself and get the fuck out of my office, I've got mountains of paperwork to file to keep you here. Officially, you're not on active duty. Unofficially, I expect results. Investigate the club ASAP and get back to me with something useful."

Hank huffs. "It's all in the file?"

"That's what I said."

"I know what the fuck you said," Hank snaps, and walks out, leaving Connor standing awkwardly in Fowler's space, facing down a spectacularly unhappy expression.

"Is there any pertinent information not included in the file?" He resists the urge to fiddle with something, anything. As a Deviant, he has a lot of irrational needs such as this.

"Are your audio receptors as broken as your personality matrix?" Fowler waves him away. "Get to work."

Quietly, Connor slips out the door.

* * *

The files are spread out on their shared desk when Connor makes it back. Surprisingly, Hank looks pleased, rifling through them with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Connor raises an eyebrow. "I haven't had anything fucking normal to do in this station for ages," Hank clarifies. "No Deviants, no freak murders, just a group of assholes harassing sex workers." He shrugs. "Par for the fucking course."

"They're clients of the establishment?"

"New ones. They keep shoehorning themselves into other people's rooms, apparently. Why bother renting out all the VIP rooms in the club when there are only a few of you?"

Connor blinks. "They have a lot of money and time?"

"No," Hank says. "You haven't been in the Department long enough, I guess. This is Red Ice smuggling. Textbook." He grins. "Fuckers are stupid enough to disregard the new 'don't destroy our employees' policy. Normally, no-one would give a shit, but as soon as they start breaking rules..."

"They could be facing murder charges," Connor extrapolates.

"Not that they would stick," Hank mutters. "It's an easy enough job. You shouldn't have to put anything in your mouth." He pauses, winces. "Anyway."

"How long has this been going on?"

"A few days." Hank sighs. "Not long enough to set up anything substantial, but if we can get a lead on their organisation..."

"You think they aren't acting alone?" It's true Connor doesn't yet know enough about the city to make leap judgements, but it's seemed so far like dog eat dog. Nobody seems eager to rely on each other. Then again, with the promise of enough pay...

"Too risky for a solo effort. No, they've got someone watching their back."

"You want to infiltrate the ring?"

Hank gives him a sharp look. "You don't?"

"That's not what I was implying." Connor crosses his arms, a gesture he seems to have picked up from somewhere he can't remember. Just like the line between Deviant and Machine, his mannerisms have slowly blurred further and further out of the realm of CyberLife's programming. "I just want to be sure. We're going to need trackers. And a distraction in order to secure them."

"Ideas?"

"It's situational," Connor admits, sheepish. "I don't recommend fighting them. We shouldn't bring attention to ourselves or Fowler may have our positions terminated."

"Fair enough." Suddenly, Hank's placing something in his palm. Rounded, slightly warmed by the heat of Hank's body, engraved, solid. A coin. His coin. "Let's get to work and bring these bastards down."

* * *

The Eden Club has changed by exactly nothing save a sign outlining the new company policy. The music still drowns out the obscene noises drifting from the VIP rooms, booming bass and droning indecipherable lyrics. Connor doesn't particularly feel he's developed an extensive musical taste, but it's enough to realise he much prefers Hank's metal to pounding club music.

Beautiful men and women grind against poles, dollar bills tucked into the wastebands of revealing lingerie. Workers pose enticingly in glass cases, untouchable and all the more tantalising for it. Or so Connor imagines. After seeing the fear in the eyes of the couple they'd intercepted last time, he can't really appreciate the view.

"The Department should cover the price this time," Connor offers, gesturing to an android off to the far right. Outwardly, she's perfectly composed, but he can see the way her pulse is jumping. Every so often, her eyes dart to the side, frantic.

Hank groans. "I'm making you open your own account after this. I'm not raising any more alarms with my credit company."

Connor approaches the woman slowly, transmitting his credentials over their shared neural net. Immediately, her simulated breathing eases. "I figure you guys are investigating the assholes who've come in every day since Monday," she says. She holds out a hand for Connor to take. "Here, take a look. They've been scaring the shit out of the other customers and harassing my colleagues."

They link, and Connor observes the perpetrators, three men, ranging from 6'1 to 6'4, two brunette, one blonde, stomping through the club, banging on doors and yelling over the din. One has a distinctive tattoo on his right temple, a CyberLife logo dripping blue blood. Possible android prejudice? It would explain the casual disregard of the new management. It certainly makes a statement in an android-populated strip club. He describes the men, and the tattoo, to Hank.

"That's just fucking obnoxious," Hank says. "Thanks for the info," he tells the worker, and turns back to Connor. "Let's check out the rooms. Could be they've hidden something there already."

"Hey," says the android. "Haven't you been here before?"

"No," Hank grits out, at the same time as Connor's swift, "Yes."

"Nothing to be ashamed of, Lieutenant," Connor whispers. Hank makes quickly for the nearest door.

* * *

The room is closed-in and smells unpleasantly of sex. The walls seem undamaged, and the floor is solid concrete under a garish heart-shaped rug. No obvious hiding places, but they could be intending to run deals straight out of pocket. "Anything?" Hank asks.

"Nothing I can see outright."

"What about the bed?"

Connor kneels down, brings a hand to the sheets. As expected, there's residue. He opens his mouth, starts to bring his fingers to his lips. "Jesus Christ," Hank cuts in, almost startling him. That's a new feeling.

"What?" Connor looks up, perplexed.

"No licking shit. I don't need DNA profiles of every jackass getting a happy ending here, right in the very fucking air I'm breathing."

Connor shrugs. He can't contract human diseases, but Hank's discomfort is understandable. "From surface analysis, I read Thirium, semen-"

"I don't need a play-by-play either," Hank starts, grimacing, but Connor holds up a hand.

"There's also Red Ice."

"Okay," Hank says. "Okay, that's a start. At least it means people aren't afraid to shoot up in here. Prime environment to run a business."

Connor begins to nod, but is interrupted by a loud banging. "Open up! Open the fuck up before we open for you!"

Hank pales. "Is that-?"

"The voice profiles match."

 _Shit._  Connor's processors go into overtime. He could fight, but it's not a tactically sound decision. If they blow their cover, the operation is compromised, and the dealers will change locations. It could be ages before they pick up the scent again. They could hide, but the underside of the bed probably couldn't fit them both. The lighting isn't quite dim enough to hide their forms either way. _Think._  What reason would they have to be here?

_Oh. Oh, shit._

"Hank," Connor starts. Not Lieutenant, just Hank. Hank gives him a baffled stare. "This is the only method with a high probability of success, so please go along with it."

Naturally, the words don't register, but Connor doesn't have time to explain. Instead, he begins to strip, quickly and efficiently. They're in plain clothes, no badges, nothing that would indicate they were here for anything more than a good time. For the first time, Connor finds himself thanking Fowler. But not for long, because they're here in the first place.

Hank looks horrified, and Connor has a tenth of a second to maybe feel a little offended before he climbs into Hank's lap. On instinct, Hank's hands go to his hips, steadying him. Something dark and heated flips in Connor's stomach. He doesn't think about it. He can't think about it. Cautiously, he lowers his mouth onto Hank's neck and sucks. He has no frame of reference. This is beyond even Deviant subroutines.

Hank's breath hitches. His heartrate skyrockets. "Wha-?" Connor puts two fingers over Hank's lips and continues to nip and lick at his neck, other hand going to the buttons on his shirt.

"We're coming in! Time's up. Room's ours now." Connor looks up, briefly. Three buttons undone. "You can fuck your pretty little twink elsewhere, old man." Four buttons.

"What the fuck, man?" Hank says. His voice is gravelly, breathless, lower than Connor's ever heard it. "I paid good money for this lay."

"And we paid better money. Get out."

"Whatever. Fucking pricks," Hank growls. He gets up, guiding Connor out of the room, hand on the small of his back. Why won't Connor's pulse calm? The situation is under control.

Hank elbows them out of the way, pushing violently out of the door. Nobody but an android could possibly sense the tracker he places in the head dealer's jacket pocket. Connor takes a moment to look at them, wide-eyed, pulling their attention away from Hank's exit.

"I'll pull your pump regulator still beating out of your chest if you don't leave right the fuck now. Don't make me count to three."

"Okay," Connor replies, voice soft and demure. He could incapacitate them here and now. One swift blow to the side of the head.

"C'mon," Hank says, ahead of him. Connor rushes out to the slamming sound of the door behind him. They've already won. "Mission accomplished."

Faintly, Connor notices Hank's heartbeat is still racing, hummingbird fast. _Odd,_ he thinks. _Must be the adrenaline of a new case._


End file.
